


down by the water

by Larrant



Category: 18th Century Russia RPF
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-16 14:28:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13055868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Larrant/pseuds/Larrant
Summary: Peter hasn't changed. Not in the ways that would alter him in Brockdorff's perception. When Peter is upset or surprised, he still cries. After crying, his eyes are still puffy and red, and the way with which he gazes at Brockdorff has not changed- only a sense of wonder now, in that warm gaze.It's been a long time.





	down by the water

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alley_Skywalker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alley_Skywalker/gifts).



 

the season rubs me wrong  
the summer swells anon  
so knock me down, tear me up,  
but I would bear it all broken just to fill my cup  
down by the water and  
down by the old main drag

**the decemberists - down by the water**

 

* * *

  

"You're the only one I can trust," Peter laments. It's so long ago Brockdorff has already forgotten what precisely the matter was. The memory is faded, Peter falling onto the couch in a melodramatic huff, Brockdorff thinking that he'd been watching far too much theatre in the recent months.

The recollection is sepia-toned. He remembers saying something like- ' _I know. Nobody else would tolerate you_.' And laughing at the scowl on Peter's face.

He doesn't recall much else. Not the specifics. Just Peter suddenly saying he wanted to go outside to play. Holding Brockdorff's hand and pulling him along like a toy on a pull-string. He remembers how blue the sky had been outside, how sharp the air had felt in his mouth. He'd rolled his eyes and Peter had repeated the action back at him, exaggerated, still grinning. The brightness of the smile on his face, how very carefree and happy he had seemed.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes, Brockdorff wonders if anything else matters. Then realizes there's nothing else. Nothing else that matters.

He still remembers Peter as he had been, not very tall and with a boy's face, a child's laugh. At times Brockdorff wonders if Peter has become an idea to him now. That they have been separated so long he cannot even recall Peter as he was, that the image of him in Brockdorff's head is nothing but a fictitious thing conjured from his own imagination. And he cannot envision Peter as must be now, older, an adult, no longer with that child's laugh, no longer with those wide eyes that looked to him for friendship and oftentimes guidance.

He wonders how long this has been. This gap in his memory. That he forgets Peter's face, forgets his eyes. The tone of his voice.

Years, perhaps.

At the very least he has letters. Old letters, perhaps, but the only proof that there is any semblance of reality left in his imaginings.

After all, he has a promise he yet intends to keep.

Perhaps this time he'll finally get through. At the very least he's optimistic. There are two carriages full of samples in tow, delicate glass and porcelain from Europe and the East.

It doesn't matter. None of it matters. So long as he sees Peter again.

 

* * *

 

Peter hasn't changed. Not in the ways that would alter him in Brockdorff's perception. When Peter is upset or surprised, he still cries. After crying, his eyes are still puffy and red, and the way with which he gazes at Brockdorff has not changed- only a sense of wonder now, in that warm gaze.

It's been a long time.

Peter manages to hug him- and quite possibly that's no longer appropriate, but Peter has always overlooked propriety. It was foolish to think he might have changed in that regard, too.

At times, before finally arriving, he'd been uncertain if Peter would even welcome him, a tightening fear in his chest that had kept him awake until past midnight. Perhaps he would be turned away, this time not by courtiers or officials, but by Peter's hand.

Now he realizes such a thought was patently absurd. The look in Peter's eyes when he looks at Brockdorff hasn't changed. He way he acts towards him is the same as when they were children. Nothing has changed.

He finds himself consumed with delirious relief.

 

* * *

 

That sense of relief lasts perhaps a couple of years.

In the long run, it is nothing.

 

* * *

 

It has become somewhat inevitable for even unrelated conversation to drift to the topic of Peter's reforms. It's what he calls them after all, ' _reform_ '.

"It's not feasible." Brockdorff says, bluntly. For the fourth or fifth time.

Peter is-- angry. Frustrated. He's said it before, time and again- that Catherine is telling him all the same things, that Brockdorff seems to enjoy echoing everything his courtiers and his wife take _great pains_ to impart on him. Things Peter already knows.

"I thought you would understand." Peter finishes, and looks away.

 _For once_ , Brockdorff thinks, _your wife is for once right_.

And just for once, just perhaps, he wishes he didn't need to explain anything to Peter that wouldn't make a difference, he wishes he could say- _just listen to me, just trust me, just do as I say._

Or perhaps he wants Peter to finally hear him-- and briefly, there's an urge in him to step forward and shake his oldest friend by the shoulders. Maybe he should snap and snarl; _stop being obstinate_ , and maybe that would hurt Peter, dredge back the memories of childhood, a tutor who always used such words, such belittling phrases- ' _an obstinate boy, always so difficult_ '. He knows Peter still remembers. He knows that sometimes Peter still flinches, the reaction unthinking to a word or a phrase. Brockdorff is almost frustrated enough not to care- maybe that would finally get through and afterwards. Afterwards Peter would forgive him, Peter would forget.

But this isn't the boy he once knew.

He breathes instead. In, then out.

They're older now, not better and only changed. But older. Peter lifts a hand and shakes his head. A moment passes. He swallows, his eyes flicker- a nervous habit, from childhood. For a moment Brockdorff wonders if something in his tone has gotten through. But then, Peter softens. "Trust me," he says, and his tone is firm.

"I do." Brockdorff replies, immediate and without thought. But that's not it. Trust isn't the problem.

 

* * *

 

"I hear you've been losing favour recently."

Gudovich is polite as ever, glittering eyes that reveal nothing. He doesn't even need to say Peter's name or title. Brockdorff smiles in response, brittle and cold. _Come to brag_ , he is tempted to ask, almost does- and doesn't. His careful grasp of control keeps on slipping. Sooner or later, he'll find it's been lost completely.

Still it is true; Brockdorff has, more often than not in recent months, been absent from court. Many still associate with him. Less listen to him.

Sometimes, he wonders if Peter realizes the consequences of his actions. That falling out of favour with him is no longer a mere childhood spat. That there are consequences for everything, especially what he does not intend.

If it was realized, undoubtedly it was overlooked.

Gudovich, on the other hand, still retains his influence with Peter. He's always been a people-pleaser. Brockdorff isn't surprised. It occurs to Brockdorff that perhaps Peter might even listen to Gudovich. But Gudovich would not advise Peter well. He is not loyal, not in the way Brockdorff is. Gudovich follows, blind and eager to please. That is not loyalty. He will do nothing to keep Peter safe.

 _You're a dog_ , he almost says and doesn't say. _You're nothing but a dog and that's why Peter keeps you at his side, you're worthless and he keeps you because he is fond of you. Nothing more_.

Quite suddenly he's had enough of seeing Gudovich's face.

"If you'll excuse me," Brockdorff smiles without warmth. "I have an appointment to keep."

 

* * *

 

He wonders what he can do for Peter. Here. Now. Now that everything is finished and only a fool would not know it. But Peter _is_ a fool. There's nothing he can do, nothing either of them can do.

But doesn't Brockdorff have to try? Doesn't he still have that responsibility? To try?

It's useless, he knows. And he won't think of the past now, he won't think of all the times he'd told Peter, how he'd soured their friendship over things that Peter had still not changed anything over. He won't think of how he'd never quite comprehended his own warnings, everything he'd said and still he had never thought it would come to this.

And yet. And yet. Whatever it is that he can still do, however useless, however devoid of meaning. He must.

 

* * *

 

In the end, there's nothing he can do.

 

* * *

 

_What's left._

There's nothing of worth left in Russia for him. The reason he'd come here in the first place is... gone.

Gone. Just like that.

Brockdorff just breathes, unmoored from the harsh wind. Looks up to the white sky. Clouds of snow, weighing down the heavens. There's nothing left for him here, not under any sun, not in any country. He closes his eyes and imagines that it is 1754, that the sky is blue and he is still in love. He is not so afraid to admit it to himself now.

 

* * *

 

It doesn't need to be 1754. He is still in love.

 

 


End file.
